


White Sheets

by lindt_barton



Category: Four Rooms (1995), Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, Gen, M/M, preslash, tarantino - Freeform, tarantino-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. White lies low at the Hotel Mon Signor after the diamond heist. (Basically, no Mr. Orange, Ted instead).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning, this won't ever get finished, but it's better than nothing?

“Kid, you give me a room off the books and I give you a hundred bucks.”

Ted smiles hoping to inject just the correct amount of aim-higher-sir, “I’m afraid that is against company policy, sir.”

“Two hundred or I’ll make sure you ain’t got any thumbs to sit on.”

That startles a giggle out of him and sweat sparks on his back, but he keeps his smile plastered on and slinks from behind the desk. “Right this way sir.”

He snakes his hand out to take the man’s only luggage, a small briefcase, “Thumbs,” the guy barks and he snaps his hand back to his side. Or at least to squirming closer to his side. “As you wish, Sir.” Ted thinks he can see the man smirking at him out of the corner of his eye as he ambles into the elevator.

Ted wiggles his fingers over the buttons (and by extension his butt wiggles too) before he selects the third floor with a single outstretched index finger. The floor shifts beneath his feet as the guy steps in and moves behind him. Ted glances over his shoulder and sees him leaning against the wall. His forearms resting on the rail. Toned muscles and easy tan shown off below rolled up shirt sleeves. Ted peels his eyes back to facing forwards.

That lasts until the first floor, where Ted’s eyes drift back over his shoulder. An operation that, naturally, involves most of his body; Ted would curse his lack of subtlety if he were aware of it. The guy meets his eye unphased by Ted taking in his plain black suit, that’s obviously been through some rough and tumble. More than rough, there are spots of blood on the shirt.

"Does Sir," he pauses to emphasise the title, "have a name?"

That made the guy frown. Sucks his tongue. After a moment, sullenly “Mr. White.”

"Ah," Ted croons, "Very stylish, Sir." He decides to make up for forcing Mr. ‘White’ to lie with a little theatrics. So. He flicks his head to the other side and hums. "I suppose, if I were a color, I’d be red but," he twists his hand on an dial only he can see and screws up his face. "A certain light at the end of the day. Creeping up on us. Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the sky… deep shining ochres, burning vermilion and filigrees of bittersweet shimmer- reflecting on itself and through itself and off the side of a high rise building."

The bell dings. A glance over his shoulder confirms the debt has been paid. He adds two floors on the colour orange to his mental list of bullshitting feats, before flicking himself into the corridor. Four floors on pilchards is his personal best.

At the end, in front of a door distinctly less polished than the others, and lacking a room number, he stops abruptly and pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket, twirling it around his fingers. He absolutely does not check the progress of Mr. White’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

"The finest room, that we do not have," he waggles his eyebrows, and opens the door with a flourish, which is rapidly cut short when it sticks on the uneven carpet. If not for the two fingers now caught in his collar, he would have brained himself on the doorknob.

Mr. White pulls him upright, “What the hell are you on, kid?”

"Seven fifty an hour," with a grin, a flick of the head and the hips. That earns his a chuckle. It feels as good as a fifty dollar tip. He twitches when he realises he’d been standing in the doorway grinning back. A clap of the hands. Glee. "Welcome to Room X of the Mon Signor. We have the fourth finest sheets in the state and as you have seen, the fifth worst carpets.” He swings his arm in a great ark towards, “Your main attraction: One telly that’s seen better days with cable that never has.” He leers over his shoulder, “Pay-per-view on channel 46. If you get carried away and spoil the sheets, hang that card on the door handle and laundry will deal with it. Of course if you want to keep staining the sheets, leave up the do not disturb so Cecil the perverted janitor can listen in. The bathroom is fitted out with a suitably scalding shower and all the usual impractically small bottles of lotions you’ve never heard of. Theft is entirely encouraged because you may as well join in with the cleaning staff." A final dramatic flurry: he speaks from behind a hand, “Lastly, do not, whatever you do, eat anything that has touched the kitchenette.” And scene.

He spins on his heel to find Mr. White leaning against the door frame, arms folded, watching him with an easy smile. His chest puffs up and he can feel his ego rubbing against Mr. White’s legs and purring.

"I didn’t know two hundred bucks was enough to buy you for the night."

Ted flounders slapping his mouth open and closed, his eyebrows lost somewhere in his in his hairline. Another chuckle, “So that’s what it takes to shut you up.” He tries to protest as Mr. White slinks towards him, but only manages a high pitched babble. Mr. White stops a foot short of where Ted had been sure he was about to be mounted. He gets a slap on the back instead, “Thanks for the sideshow,” their eyes meet, closer than they should be, “Mr. Orange.” His fingers linger, but only to shove Ted towards the door.

“My pleasure, Mr White,” he says before ceremoniously closing the door.

Larry rolls his eyes as he hears the boy whistle his way down the corridor.


	2. Orange Drapes

There’s a rat.

Huddled away from the rain, against the wall of the Hotel Mon Signor, though it’s still splashing his worn red Converse. Larry spots him as his taxi pulls up. He’s visibly swearing at the cigarette he’s failing to light and barely recognisable as the bellhop from the night before without his characteristic spring and frankly ridiculous uniform.

Larry jumps from the taxi, newspaper under arm and lighter pulled from pocket. He stalks towards the boy as he did the night before, but this time unseen. Larry’s hand is actually cupped around the kid’s cig before he’s even clocked he’s no longer alone.

"Orange," he murmurs as he snaps his fingers against his lighter, bringing fire to it and the cigarette. First try. Orange flicks up an eyebrow, knowing he’s being impressed. He mutters ‘anks around the butt then, not to be outdone, blows a smoke ring into Larry’s face. It pops on his nose.

He leans on the wall beside Orange with his hands in his pockets and watches the rain pour off the awning in front of them. “Where’d all your spring go, kid?”

"Right under a 300lb drunk Russian," he says bitterly. The glowing tip of the cigarette bobs and catches Larry’s eye and he’s back to watching the kid. His hands are still fidgeting with his broken lighter.

"Not everyone as fun to play with as me?"

Larry remembers what he’d been witness to this morning:

5am. He’d woken restless and it was too late to try for more sleep so he decided to get a paper. Scope out whether every Jack and Jill on the street was about to start looking for him.

The first thing he’d seen on entering the foyer had been Orange. Dead asleep. Somehow spread horizontally between his stool and the counter it was behind with his head balanced on his fist. His cap was gone, in its place a red telephone, an ashtray and a snowglobe, one on top of the other. He was smiling dreamily.

The second, a girl behind him, flapping silently at Larry and motioning him to keep quiet. He’d not been making a noise but now he’d stopped in his tracks, curious to see what sort of show was about to unfold. Just then two girls tiptoed from the back room, both stiffling giggles, one carrying a Polaroid camera.

He’d had to turn away with second hand embarrassment at that stage. As he’d walked out he’d seen the flash reflected closely followed by the crash of everything falling to the floor and Orange yelping, “BLOODY HELL!”

Back in the moment, he giggles. Orange glares and half folds his arms, continuing to smoke. Larry flips his paper open, still smiling to himself, and scans the headlines for news of the heist he’s running from. Half of the second page is taken up with a story on the job. Three dead in store, a hundred thousand dollars worth stolen, cop found burned alive, thought to be linked. Public warned to be on their guard, but the suits and sunglasses had prevented useful recognisable descriptions. Orange is taking an interest over his shoulder so he flicks on to the sports section thinking of how the kid had clocked the blood on his shirt last night.

He vaguely reads the baseball scores while paying more attention to Orange reading over his shoulder. His long fingers pinching the cigarette against his lips. How he blows the smoke down, away from Larry, but every third breath or so he sends a smoke ring over the paper. Worse than Larry for showing off his trick. Enough time has passed for them to have both read the whole page easily, Orange’s cig nearly done, but they both still stand. A little too close.

Larry’s taxi had passed a Mexican on the way to the newsagents. Larry could never resist a Mexican. Even for breakfast. Which his stomach insisted he definitely had not had yet. The kid probably hadn’t either. Larry’s eyes flick onto him. Orange had already been watching him, and their eyes lock.

Larry looks away first, “You better not be waiting on that rain to stop. It’ll take more’n one cigarette for that.” Long enough to get breakfast.

He scowls, “I’m waiting for Beth and her,” he throws the cig to the ground and stomps it out, “fucking harpies to finish doing t-” He’s kicked off the wall, gesticulating wildly, facing away from Larry.

Larry grabs his arm and pulls him to face him once more, “Now listen, you ain’t gonna get a nice gal talkin’ like that.”

Somehow, Orange frowns scowls deeper, “I don’t want a nice gal.

White hangs a moment, an eyebrow raised, “You just don’t go around disrespecting people giving you favours, kid.”

“She’s not doing me a fucking favour, she’s repaying me for a memorable,” he shudders, “ new year-”

“Oi Theodore!” a girl with two others calls making Orange growl, “It’s Ted.” She continues, unlocking a car, “quit flirting and get over here so I can drive you home.”

Larry smiles at Ted and walks towards them, “Don’t mind me, girls, I was just trying to convince Theodore here to respect lovely ladies such as yourselves.” Two of them preen and the other looks distinctly prickly.

Ted’s beside him again, “Well. Mr. White just lost himself a breakfast date,” he grins wickedly and dives into the car. A chorus of catcalls rise from the girls.

Unphased he replies, “It’s his loss. Trust me,” and winks.

From the car, Ted sees him wave goodbye over his head with the newspaper. He sets to plotting the recovery of a certain photo.


End file.
